


Some Day One Day

by sweet_ladyy



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:07:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23935069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweet_ladyy/pseuds/sweet_ladyy
Summary: Brian invites you to come with him to his childhood home in Hampton for the spring holiday. Little does he know you’ve been pining for him for the past six months.
Relationships: Brian May/You
Kudos: 20





	1. part one

Some Day One Day — chapter one

  
[ ](https://66.media.tumblr.com/a3edd20b3d2dcdd71ab6b76da4d99a85/tumblr_inline_pl7fvuWF8m1ufkuu0_400.jpg)

**Pairing** : College!Brian May (1960s) x fem!reader

**Warnings** : none (this is fluff!) except friends-to-lovers

**Words** : 3K

**Summary** : Brian invites you to come with him to his childhood home in Hampton for the spring holiday.

**Disclaimer** : This is a work of fiction and is not intended to be taken as truth or fact. I do not claim to own Brian May, Queen, or any other affiliated names or fictional events.

**Author’s Note** : This fic is the stuff out of my fluff fantasies! I’m a sucker for college!Bri, and I hope you are, too. It’s been nice writing something and not feeling like I need to obsessively research/fact check/edit. Enjoy! Part 2 to come soon.

~ [chapter two](https://sweet-ladyy.tumblr.com/post/181953770879/some-day-one-day-chapter-two) ~

———

The Imperial College London semester schedule includes a one-week holiday in the middle of March. All of your friends have already packed their bags and gone away to spend their breaks at home or on vacation. But since home is a little too far for you, and since you can’t afford a vacation, you’ve come to terms with the prospect of staying in London for the spring holiday.

On the last day of classes before the holiday, you retreat to your flat without bothering to mask the dejection from your face. A week of being alone was going to get very lonely very quickly. You pull out the keys to your flat just as your neighbor’s door opens. Brian May.

“[Y/N]!” he beams excitedly. “Happy spring holiday!” His shoulders sag under the weight of a heavy satchel and what looks like two guitars in travel cases. He looks as energetic as you feel glum. But Brian May’s smile could illuminate even your darkest day.

The day you met Brian nearly a half a year ago was the day that you realized the kind of man you’d one day marry. Obviously, he doesn’t know this. But on that day, when you and he had first moved into your respective flats before classes began in August, and he helped you move boxes up the dingy lift, and gave you advice on how to decorate your living room, and ordered pizza to share in his kitchen, and stayed up all night talking about your lives and passions…that was it for you. You _knew_ he was the one for you.

But you still haven’t done a damn thing about it, six months later.

“Hey, Brian,” you greet him. It’s been a few days since you’d really seen him—much less hung out with him—since you’d both been so swamped with midterms. You’d be lying if you say you don’t miss him…a lot. “You heading home?”

“You just caught me on my way out,” he says. “My parents are probably twiddling their thumbs waiting for me. When do you head out?”

“Oh, I, uh,” you lean against your doorframe, “I’m actually not headed home. I live too far.”

“That’s right, you do live far,” Brian says, squinting at you. “No vacation or anything?”

“Nope.”

Realization sinks in his face. “So you’re…you’re just staying here all week, then?”

“Looks like it.”

“All alone?”

“I’ll be fine,” you brush him off with a smile. “Go home to your family, Bri. It sounds like a nice time for you!”

You begin to retreat into your flat, but he follows you in, hovering by the doorframe. “Well, blimey. What’ll you do for the week?” he says, unable to hide the disbelief from his voice.

“I’ve got a bookshelf full of books… Might go see that new picture they’re showing at the theater… I was considering getting a cat…” You name off a couple options and plop on the living room loveseat.

He _tsks_ from the door, shaking his head at you. Your heart leaps, strangely. “That simply won’t do,” he says.

“It’ll have to do, ‘cause I’ve got nowhere else to go—”

“Yes, you do. You’re coming home with me,” he declares.

You raise your brows, thinking he must be joking. “Nonsense—”

“No, you’re not fighting me on this one.” Brian steps inside your flat and closer to you. He’s still holding all his luggage. “I’m not letting you stay here all alone for a week! You’ll come with me, to Hampton. You’ll be our guest.”

“Bri—”

“There’s a spare room you can stay in at my parent’s home. And my mum makes excellent pies. Oh, they’ll just love you,” he says giddily.

“Are you serious?” You feel thick with emotion. “You’ll…you’ll really take me to your hometown for the holiday?”

“[Y/N],” he says with the most sincere expression, and your name rolls off his tongue like it’s the best word he’s ever spoken. “There’s nothing I’d love more in the world.”

You leap out of your sofa and wrap your arms around his neck. “Thank you, Brian!” you squeal. He nearly staggers from your embrace and the bags on his shoulders, so you steady him, laughing. “I was going to be so lonely!”

“I know you would be,” he says, tapping your nose with his forefinger. “You like being alone, but not for _that_ long. I know you inside and out, Pluto.”

Your stomach flutters at the silly nickname he’d dubbed you months ago. “I know you do.”

“Well, I’ll go dial my mum and fetch the car while you pack your bags,” he says. “We’ll leave in fifteen?”

“Sounds perfect. I’ll be ready.”

—

You pack light. One small suitcase is stuffed with enough clothes for the week. And you collect a few essentials in a satchel—your papers and money, a few books, your glasses, a Polaroid camera, and a few notebooks. The whole time you pack, your tummy does somersaults. A whole week, originally doomed to be dull and desolate, now to be spent with Brian in his hometown. You’re not sure what exactly his family has in store for the week Brian has off. But knowing Brian, and how easily he can make any situation enjoyable, you’re more excited than you’d ever been for a holiday.

Fifteen minutes after you agreed to go with him, you meet Brian at the driveway of your flat, bags in stow. He gets out of the car to help you load them into the trunk and chats the whole time. “I rang my parents to make sure it was alright if I arrived with a friend. They sounded ecstatic. You’ll love them. My mum is very kind and thoughtful, and she loves to sing. Maybe I’ll sing a few of my newer songs with her. My father—on, you’ll like Dad lots, he’s the smartest man you’ll ever meet.”

“I think that’d be you,” you say.

“I’ll never be half as smart as Dad. He taught me literally everything I know.”

Brian opens the passenger door for you before rounding the car and climbing in himself. And then you’re off. It’s nearly sunset, and the angle of the sun on the horizon gives the buildings of the city the essence that they’re dripping with gold. You pull out your Polaroid and take a few shots out the rolled-down window of Brian’s car. And then one of Brian’s favorite Hendrix songs comes on the radio, and he looks so beautiful with his head thrown back, singing along with the solo, the sun painting a golden halo of his curly hair. You turn your camera to him, giggling and laughing as he tries to push it away. There’s at least one good picture of him. You hope once it develops that it will do justice to his beauty.

Buildings morph into countryside before your eyes. A Bob Dylan song you know comes on, and you mouth along to the lyrics. _“Then you better start swimmin’, Or you’ll sink like a stone, For the times they are a-changin’…”_

“You should sing for me, Pluto,” Brian says, his eyes on the road.

“Shh.” You hold a hand up. “Let Bob sing his song.”

“You’d sound a thousand times better than Bob Dylan.”

“You take that back about Bob,” you say with mock offense. “Besides, you know I don’t sing.”

“Are you sure about that? Sometimes, if I listen hard enough, I can hear you singing in the shower in the evenings,” he says with a teasing smile.

“Joke’s on you, I take morning showers. You were probably always hearing old Mrs. Holland down the hallway.”

He twists his face and laughs. “One day, I’ll have you sing for me. I’ll write you a song you’d be proud of singing.”

You smile and look out the window wistfully. The sunset makes the sky look magnificent, as the tiger-striped clouds grow orange and then pink. It’s perfect. “Remind me again why you call me ‘Pluto,’” you ask him.

“You know why I call you ‘Pluto.’”

“Yes, but I like to hear you say it.”

He glances over at you and smiles his sweetest smile. “It’s because you’re tiny, far-out, and greatly underestimated.”

You giggle, as you always do when he explains the nickname. “You really think that?”

“Hey, I could have nicknamed you ‘Jupiter,’” he says, “because you’re so gassy.”

“Hey!” You smack his thigh and he snickers. “That would better fit _you.”_

“No, I’d be the sun,” he says and throws back his shoulders, “‘cause everything revolves around me.”

You laugh. But if it came down to it, especially with a smile like the one he’s wearing right now, you’d have to agree.

“Just a heads up,” Brian begins. “I just want to prepare you…”

“What is it?”

“My parents are going to be _very_ excited that I took you home with me.”

“Well, yeah, you’ve said that already! I’m excited, too.”

“No, I mean, like…” He laughs. “ _Very_ excited. They’ve been bugging me to find a girlfriend for a long time now.”

Your heart thumps. _“Oh.” Oh?_

“But don’t worry, I’ll make sure to emphasize that we’re _just friends,”_ Brian says. “I’m just warning you, they’ll see a pretty face and jump to assumptions.”

You nod and hum in understanding. Your mind is reeling at his words, flitting from the casual way he transitioned from _just friends_ to _pretty face._

“I think you’ll like my little hometown, though,” he continues.

“How much further?”

“Only a few minutes, now.”

The sky is purple and dim by the time you reach Hampton. It’s a quaint suburb with a busy village square and lots of families walking on the sidewalks. It makes you smile knowing Brian grew up here.

Brian finally reaches his neighborhood, and then his road. “We’re here,” he says as he pulls up the driveway. You get out of the car and look out as Brian grabs bags from the trunk. Brian’s parents’ house looks as inviting as Brian himself. The door is red and the shutters blue. Little flower planters line the windowsills. It looks magical.

“Let me grab those,” you say as you see him staggering with as many bags as he could carry. He smiles thankfully and hands a quarter of the load to you.

Brian’s mother answers the front door on the first knock. “Come in, come in!” she ushers, stepping aside for you and Brian to enter. As Brian kisses his mother on the cheeks, you take in the alluring smells of the unfamiliar home.

“Mum, this is [Y/N],” Brian introduces you with a grand gesture that makes you giggle. Mrs. May pulls you in to kiss your forehead.

“It’s very nice to meet you, dear,” she says. She must have passed on to Brian her soft smile; you catch it immediately. “Bri, your father will be home soon. Why don’t you show your _friend_ to where she’ll be staying?”

Brian nods and kicks his shoes off before he leads you down the hallway. You copy him, leaving your shoes by the front door. Brian takes you through the house, not letting you linger for a moment too long to look at the family photographs decorating the walls and side tables.

“I told you she’d make assumptions,” he groans.

“It’s fine! She’s a really nice lady.”

“This is it,” he says, opening the door to your room. There’s a small, neatly-made bed in the center of the room, and aside from a bedside table with a lamp and a mirrored dresser, the room is empty.

“Where’s the carpet?” you ask, noticing it looks like the carpet had been replaced with linoleum.

“My dad converted this spare room into a workroom when I was a kid. Looks like they converted it back to a bedroom just for you,” he says. “Let me throw your stuff down.”

He places your suitcase down in the corner. You place your satchel on the mattress and unzip your suitcase on the floor. “Mind if I use the dresser?” you ask him.

“It’s all yours!”

You unpack your folded clothes from your suitcase into the drawers of the dresser. A couple of minutes pass before you realize Brian had been staring at you.

“What?” you smile, placing your hands on your hips.

“I’ve never brought any college friends back to my childhood home before,” he remarks. Something about the illumination of the bedside lamp on his face makes him look extra huggable. So you do, and he gladly reciprocates, kissing your forehead.

“Really, never?” you say against his shirt. He smells just like his home does, you realize before pulling away too soon.

“You’re the first.”

“I already love it,” you say. “Oh! That reminds me.” You cross over to your bag on the bed and pull out the polaroid photographs you’d stored. They’re fully developed and colorized now. There are a couple of busts, but your heart skips a few beats when you realize how lovely Brian looks in the good one you’d taken of him singing in the car.

You choose the best of the sunset photos. “I’ll give this to your mum as a thank-you gift.”

Brian looks at you for a long time, his smile growing and growing. “You’re so sweet. She’ll never shut up about you,” he says. “You’re everything she ever talked about wanting in a girl for me to take home.”

You match his smile, thinking to yourself, _what do_ you _want in a girl, Brian?_

You gnaw on your cheek. _Stop it._

“I’m going to go bring my stuff upstairs,” he says. “Be right back?”

“Sure, I’ll be here. I’m going to go get to know your mum,” you smile.

Mrs. May is the perfect host. She offers you tea and biscuits, which you gladly accept. You offer her your polaroid sunset picture. You sit beside her in the wallpapered living room and answer all her questions about your hometown, your major, your family. You describe the way you’d met Brian and his flatmates in September, and illustrate your career plans after you finish college.

Mr. May arrives home from his work not too much later. The similarities between him and Brian are striking, and not just the physical ones. He holds himself and walks with the same gait as Brian. And if their son inherited his mother’s smile, he inherited his father’s eyes.

Mrs. May ushers everyone to the dining room for dinner. You thank them repeatedly as they serve you helpings of food. At dinner, Mr. May tells you all about his job as a draughtsman and illustrates how he taught his son to build televisions and radios—and guitars. You nod and listen, and even though you’ve heard the same stories from Brian’s lips, it’s a treat to hear them from his father’s.

After dinner, Mr. May lights a cigarette as his wife clears the table. “We’re thinking about taking a vacation down to Brighton while Brian is home this week,” he tells you. “Just like old times, right, son?”

“Did you vacation in Brighton often?” you ask Brian.

“Every summer,” he answered, settling down beside you on the couch. He turns to his parents. “I didn’t know we planned on going to Brighton?”

“It was just an idea,” Mr. May says. “We’d be excited if your friend [Y/N] would join us.”

“Sounds fun,” you say. You’ve never been to Brighton.

Brian smiles at you and nudges your shoulder with his. “We could go to the Palace Pier. Go ride the Ferris wheel.” He _knows_ how much you hate heights.

“Anything for you,” you say. And even though you hate heights, you imagine what it’d be like to kiss him at the top of the Ferris wheel. 

Mr. May turns on the telly to watch the evening programs over evening tea and biscuits. Brian asks you if you want to see the backyard garden, and you nod. He leads you to the back door and outside. The garden is full of greenery and multicolored flowers, and fairy lights hanging from the porch archway illuminate various marble statuettes and decor.

“Sorry if it’s a little boring around here,” Brian murmurs.

You turn to him and his eyes look so sparkly from the lights that you could kiss him right then and there. But you restrain yourself. “It’s not boring,” you reassure him. “Besides, even if it _was_ boring, anything would be better than sitting around alone at home.”

You take it upon yourself to sit down on the wooden swinging bench. Brian plops down beside you, causing the whole swing to start moving at his momentum, and you laugh and poke his side. He spends a while kicking his feet back and forth with the momentum, trying to see how high he can make the swing go. As soon as the wooden beam holding the swing begins to creak precariously, you squeal and tell him to knock it off.

You and Brian grow silent as the swing slows and eventually stops. Crickets chirp in a cacophonous symphony around you. The sky is dark now; you wonder how many stars you can see, and you have a hunch that Brian is wondering the same thing.

“You alright?” you nudge him beside you.

Brian huffs a sigh. “Yeah. I’m just thinking… It’s only a matter of time before one of my parents brings up the Brian’s-Future predicament again.”

“The what?”

“Whatever you do, don’t give my dad any reason to suspect I won’t finish my PhD.”

“Does he think you’ll drop or something?”

“Well, I’ve considered it.”

You gape. Brian, the studious boy who spends so many hours hunched over his books that you have to call him to remind to stretch his legs, wants to drop his PhD? “You haven’t told me that.”

“I guess there’s a lot I haven’t talked to you about. You know, it’s been a few weeks since you and I have even had a chance to catch up,” he says. “I haven’t even told you the best news.”

“What is it?”

He smiles like the sun. “We found a new singer. For the band. He’s _amazing._ ”

“You think he’s better than Tim?”

“A thousand times over.”

“That’s great, Bri,” you smile back. “You think you’ll get signed one day?”

“God, I hope so.” He hesitates for a second before leaning in toward you. “Hey, Pluto.”

“Yes?”

“What do you say we make up for lost time?”

Your entire body goes absolutely still. “What do you mean?”

“It’s been weeks since we last hung out.”

“…What did you have in mind?”

“An adventure,” he says with a childlike quality to his voice. “Go get ready for bed. But we’re not going to bed. I’m taking you somewhere.”

You frown. “We’re—we’re going out? Where?”

“You’ll see,” he smiles. “It’s somewhere special.”

“Well, what am I supposed to wear?”

He considers for a second. “Sneakers.”

———


	2. part two

Some Day One Day — chapter two  
image  
Pairing: College!Brian May (1960s, or early 70s) x fem!reader

Warnings: a kiss (this is fluff!), friends-to-lovers, a lil angst aka Brian May Sad Boi Hours

Words: 2.5K

Summary: Brian invites you to come with him to his childhood home in Hampton for the spring holiday.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and is not intended to be taken as truth or fact. I do not claim to own Brian May, Queen, or any other affiliated names or fictional events.

Author’s Note: Wow, this fic got crazy feedback!!! I’m so happy to create something you all enjoy. This fic is the stuff out of my fluff fantasies! I’m a sucker for college!Bri, and I hope you are, too. It’s been nice writing something and not feeling like I need to obsessively research/fact check/edit. Enjoy! 

~ chapter one ~

———

If you would had told yourself a day ago that you’d be kicking off the spring holiday with a midnight bike ride with Brian May through the empty streets of Hampton, you wouldn’t have believed it.

The streetlights bathe the world before you in a wash of yellow. The night air is brisk but lively, and it bites at your nose and fingertips as you pedal to keep up with Brian. He’d given you his bicycle, and though it was too big for you, you’d gotten the hang of it quickly. Brian uses his father’s bike. He looks back at you every so often and asks how you’re doing with a smile.

“Keepin’ up alright, Pluto?”

“This is fun!” you shout back. The road flies beneath your tires. It’s been years since you’ve ridden a bike, and years since you’ve felt like this.

Brian had waited to come get you until an hour after his parents retired for the night. You had slipped on your sneakers—as per his recommendation—and a jacket and waited patiently for the knock on your guest room door. When he finally came, he was wearing similar clothing and a guitar case around his back. He’d beamed at you with unchecked excitement. 

“Are you ready?” he’d whispered. You’d nodded and followed him out to the garage, feeling like two teenagers sneaking out for the night.

But you still have no idea where on earth he’s taking you. And with his guitar strapped on his back. Was it some kind of music venue? A hidden cave? A lakeside view? He’d insisted that it was “somewhere special,” but that couldn’t be more ambiguous. You were out of guesses. 

Anywhere is special with Brian, you think, watching the way the wind blows his hair back as he bikes in front of you.

The sidewalk comes to a dead end at the end of the neighborhood and the start of the woods. Brian slows and halts his bike, and you do the same. There’s a barely-visible dirt trail leading through the trees. And no lights.

“We’re going down that path?” you squeak.

He turns to examine your expression and laughs. “It’s the only way to get there.”

“And where is there?”

“Do you trust me at all?

“I’m not sure at this point. Are you sure you’re not leading me to our death? Death by creepy, murderous clown in the shadows?”

He ruffles your hair. You hate it when anyone else does that, but when Brian does, it makes your heart flutter. “You’re so dramatic and I love it. C’mon.”

He hops off his bike and begins to walk it down the trail. He’s pulled out a little black cylinder—a flashlight—and uses it to illuminate the trees ahead. You’re glad he decided not to ride; it’s much too dark to see more than a few feet in front of you, even with the flashlight and the moonlight overhead. If you were riding, you’d most certainly hit a tree.

He hums an unfamiliar tune to himself as he leads the way. The sound provides a nice counterpoint against the cadence of crickets chirping and nightingales calling in surround sound. You push your bike a little faster so you can walk side-by-side with him.

“Alright, mystery man,” you call to him. “The suspense is killing me.”

“So impatient,” he chides. “Give it five more minutes.”

The trail widens and the trees grow sparse. You’re soon at the edge of an open field, with rolling hills and tall grass swaying in the gentle wind. The moon shines brightly overhead. You look up at at Brian beside you. He’s bathed in moonlight, so he looks like a character in a black and white film. And then he squeezes your hand, and it feels like a dream.

“Just down this way.”

“I still have no idea where you could possibly be taking me—”

“[Y/N], look up.”

You follow his gaze. A rickety old ladder propped up against a huge oak tree leads up to a large wooden treehouse, built atop one of the thicker branches. Silhouetted against the moon, it looks straight out of a fairy tale.

“My dad and I built it years ago,” he explained, setting his and your bikes against the base of the tree. “He knows the chap who owns this property and got permission. I don’t think I’ve been here in about eight years.”

You’re speechless. Your life feels like a movie.

“Come on,” he says, taking your hand again and pulling you to the ladder. “I’ll go first, and scan around for murderous clowns.”

You snort a laugh. Brian climbs the ladder and reaches the top, where there’s a trapdoor entrance. He pulls a key from his pocket and unlocks it.

“We’re in the clear on the clown front. It’s a bit dusty, but that’s all. Your turn!”

You take a deep breath and climb the ladder after him. It’s not that tall of a treehouse, but tall enough that you fear you’ll misstep and tumble. Brian senses this—he always senses your thoughts— and takes your hand and helps you up the final few steps.

He was right; it is dusty. But it’s perfect.

Brian’s flashlight shines against the wall in the corner, providing just enough light to see. It’s by no means a large treehouse, but it’s big enough to house a couple of wooden chairs and a little square table. A faded rug covers the paneled floors. Windows are cut into the longest wall that overlooks the valley. A little alcove with a tall window looks like it was built specifically for using a telescope.

Brian is gazing out the windows at the view, his profile illuminated by the moon. It takes everything you have in you not to cross the room and turn his face to yours and kiss him senseless. And promptly ruin your six months of friendship.

He catches you staring, though. “What do you think?” he asks quietly.

“It’s brilliant,” you whisper, running your hands along the sandpapered walls. “This is the stuff out of everyone’s childhood dream.”

He chuckles. “I used to come here to get away. I’d bring a guitar and just escape the world for a few hours.”

“You brought your guitar today, too,” you note.

“Yeah, I’ve been playing around with a new melody in my head. But I wanted your help on the lyrics.”

He settles himself down on the floor, ignoring the two chairs. You copy him, sitting so your knee is inches away from his. He braces his hands behinds them and tilts back, eyes closed.

“You said you would come here to escape?” you ask him quietly. “What from?” You hope it doesn’t sound like you’re interrogating him.

But he sighs gently and answers anyway. “It’s quite silly, really. How sad I always was. Still am,” he adds, gazing at the rickety ceiling of the treehouse.

“That’s never silly,” you whisper.

“But why? I have everything. Two loving parents, a perfectly quaint little suburban life, the promise of a profitable career ahead of me. Seems a little childish to be so sad all the time when I have so much to be glad for.”

You scoot closer to him, so your shoulders are touching. You can’t help it. “Sometimes, it’s not enough,” you reassure him. “And that’s okay. Maybe there’ll be a day where you wake up and don’t feel sad anymore, some day, one day…”

“Some day, one day,” he repeats, nodding slowly.

You hum in coordinance. There’s a new charge between you and Brian that you’ve only just become aware of. Even though there’s always a mutual energy, tonight it feels wholly different. The thrill of the midnight air seems to amplify it, and you feel brave, uncharacteristically brave. His hand rests on the rug right next to you; you touch his pinky with yours, feeling the phantom of an electric shock. And then you take his wrist and flip his hand over, palm up, so you can trace the details of his fingertips.

Maybe you’re imagining it, but it sounds like his breath just hitched.

“Why’d you wanna take me here?” you murmur.

He gazes down at you with a bittersweet expression. “It just felt right to bring you here,” he says, his baritone voice abysmally soft. “It’s the nostalgia, I think. Sometimes the nostalgia gets overwhelming. But when I’m with you… You just fit here for me, in this place. Somehow, you make everything feel right.”

His parted lips are so close—how did that happen?—and his curls tickle your neck. You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and huff a closed-mouth laugh. And without warning, his hand follows the path yours took, tracing a line down the back of your ear with the lightest touch of a fingertip. The same finger caresses your jawline from ear to chin, light as a feather. You can’t hold back a little gasp and the slight tremor it sends down your spine. His eyes lands on your lips as you part them.

And then, stupidly, you kill the moment. “Will you play me your song?” you say, too loudly.

Brian withdraws his hand and smiles, biting his lip. “I was hoping you’d ask.”

You slap yourself internally as he unzips the guitar case on his other side. What the hell? Why did you do that? You’re like a nervous teenager all over again, even though you’re twenty-one and few things make you nervous anymore. How is it that this curly–haired guitarist–slash–scientist can so easily erode your thickest layers down to your most vulnerable state of existence?

Brian adjusts the tuning keys of his acoustic before launching into a gentle progression of chords. The wooden walls of the treehouse make for surprisingly lovely acoustics. And you find yourself resting your temple on his shoulder, eager to watch the way his fingers move over the frets so naturally.

He begins singing, cautiously, experimentally. It’s the melody he’d been humming to himself on the way here. The lull of his rich voice washes over you like a reverie. “You never heard my song before, the music was too loud… But now I think you hear me well, for now, we both know how.”

The words come out slowly, as if he is considering the weight of each syllable on his tongue. He’s coming up with them on the spot, you realize. His eyes close and his brows furrow as he considers a chorus. “No star can light our way in this cloud of dark and fear… But some day, one day…”

Those are your words, the words you’d just spoken to him. You smile up at him from his shoulder.

He looks down at you questioningly, the last chord hanging in the air. He rests his forehead down on yours. You softly exhale and move toward him, just fractionally.

And then he kisses you, softly, gently. Your whole body ignites and your toes curl. His lips press once against your top lip, once against your bottom lip. And then he pulls away, his eyelids fluttering rapidly. His eyes search yours. His shaking breath on your face feels foreign and yet so familiar.

Logical thoughts become lost in the moment. You bury your hands in his curly hair and bring his lips to yours once more. There’s passion there this time, real passion, unadulterated by nerves or uncertainty or anything else. The hand on his guitar’s neck moves to your neck, steadying you, holding you firmly. Your breath is hot intermixed with his. Everything in you screams that this is happening, this is it, this is right. And so you draw nearer, hovering over him now, caressing the face you’ve spent so many months wondering must feel.

Brian sets his guitar aside without pulling his lips away from yours. And then you’re crawling onto his lap, sitting on top of him with your legs outstretched to the side and your torso turned to face him head-on. Six months of pent-up pining for him finally comes out, and you deepen the kiss with a trace of your tongue across his bottom lip. He moans when your tongue meets his. You can feel the warmth of his mouth all the way to your toes.

“Wait, wait, darling,” he murmurs, pushing your head back from his. His lips look pink and his eyes look wild. You can hardly believe for a second that it’s Brian, your friend Brian, and he’s real and he’s right here.

It must have been too fast. “I’m sorry,” you stammer. “I didn’t mean—”

He caresses your cheek softly to cut you off. “Don’t be,” he whispers. “I just wanted to look at you, look at you for real.” His thumb finds your swollen lip and traces the line of it.

The reality of the situation comes to you like a fire lit under your soul. Brian May is holding you in his hands, on the floor of his childhood treehouse, you’re sitting in his lap, and he’s looking up at you like you’re a meteor shower and he’s trying to open his eyes wide enough to see every single shooting star.

That was it. The line had been crossed. There is no turning back. Had you and Brian just destroyed six months of friendship?

No. Not destroyed. There’s a spark in his eyes that tells you there is something anew between you and him. Something better.

“[Y/N],” he whispers. “I’ve never met someone so beautiful. I don’t think I ever will.” He wraps his arms around you in a hug, a hug for which you had been waiting for so long. You let him press the side of his face to your chest, hardly believing how perfectly he fits with you when you hug him like this. You bury your nose in his hair, and just like that, Brian May becomes your favorite smell.

“Do you know how long…” you breathe, but trail off as his hand finds the exposed skin of small of your back where your shirt rode up. It’s as if the ability to form words disintegrates when he touches you. There was no way you could have anticipated just how much his touch would affect you.

“Six months,” he answers for you. “And I’ve wanted to kiss you for six months, Pluto.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Well, why didn’t you?”

Good question. You chuckle and allow your fingertips to soak in every tactile detail of his face as he peers up at you. “I thought you were too good for me.”

“Too good?” he asks incredulously. The warm hand on your back feels like fire as it toys with the hem of your shirt. “Now why would you think that?”

“Well, you’re as smart as an encyclopedia, for one,” you say and tap his forehead. “I mean, god, you’re getting a PhD in astrophysics. Which is more than intimidating.”

“Oh, come on, Miss I-Made-Perfect-Marks-On-My-Exams-Last-Semester.”

You jab his side, and he emits a laugh. “It’s not the same. Anyway, you’re good at everything, too. Literally everything.”

“Well, you don’t know that.” Is that a suggestive smirk?

“And you’re a rock star.”

“Up-and-coming,” he adds.

“The point is…” You pull back a little and examine his eager face. “You’re you. And I’m just me.”

“Just you?” he remarks, shocked. Both his hands cup your face, and you could just melt into them. “My god. [Y/N]. You’re an absolute goddess. You’re almost too much to handle.”

“I’m no goddess,” you murmur, as he begins peppering your nose with kisses, and then your eyelids, and then the corners of your mouth. “I’m just a girl.”

“Yes, you are,” he says, and kisses you again, slowly, languidly. He smiles against your mouth. “You’re just my kind of girl.”

———


End file.
